


The Mind has a Thousand Eyes

by watsonwaltz



Series: The Calendar Collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Fluffity Fluff Fluff, Morning, Waking Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonwaltz/pseuds/watsonwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The mind has a thousand eyes, and the heart but one." - Francis William Bourdillon, Light, 1873</p><p>Sherlock and John wake peacefully one morning, and John wonders how Sherlock is capable of just so much.</p><p>Part 2 of The Calendar Collection: 12 works in 2014 inspired by one literary quote per month.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind has a Thousand Eyes

Sherlock Holmes awoke that morning with the weight of a worn-out doctor resting on the right side of his chest, his soft, greying hair nestled just underneath Sherlock’s chin. As Sherlock slowly came to, he took in the golden glow of the morning sun shaping a frame around the bedroom window with its blinds still drawn, the low thrum from downstairs of Mrs Hudson’s kettle boiling for their morning tea, the clean scent of their shampoo from John’s freshly washed hair, and the comforting presence of John’s arm lain across Sherlock’s chest, his hand curved around the left side of his ribcage. For being one of the busiest cities on Earth, Sherlock found mornings in London to be truly quite peaceful when they started with John Watson by his side.

Even after five years of their relationship, and hence five years of this waking routine, Sherlock was grateful every morning for a solid eight hours of sleep; of course, he knew it hadn’t always been that way. Much to John’s initial surprise, Sherlock proved to be quite capable of introspection every now and then, deducing not only those around him, his clients, and their associates, but also himself when the need (or more likely, the boredom) arose. For as long as he could remember, Sherlock found it simply intolerable to sleep alone. He’d toss and turn, throw off his duvet because he’d be too warm, then wrap himself up in extra throws because he’d be too cold, calculating how much sleep he’d need to get to be able to function for the next 24 hours and comparing that to how long he’d been trying to fall asleep, until he’d finally give up and head back to the kitchen to continue the strange and curious analysis of some dissected part of the human anatomy until Lestrade called again. Sherlock explained to John on their first morning of waking together those five years ago after a wonderful eight hours of sleep that his reliance on others for a good night’s sleep had started from when he was a baby.

Sherlock was a late child for Mr and Mrs Holmes but he wasn’t their second. In fact, he was their third. The doting couple had lost a baby midway through their pregnancy when Mycroft was still young and so when little Sherlock came along they would take it in turns to cradle him and nurse him and rock him to sleep, holding him tightly against their chests, determined not to lose a precious moment with him as they had with their little girl. As Sherlock grew out of pale blue baby-grows and into dinosaur-print pyjamas, his dark hair starting to curl at the ends, his reliance on falling asleep with someone else grew too, and his mother would often find him in the mornings snuggled up with a teenaged Mycroft, Teddy in tow (which, incidentally, his father had bought him in the hope of training him to sleep in his bed alone). His growing dependence started to catch up with him in his teens and by the time he graduated, sleep was a sweet, improbable memory. On that first morning with John, Sherlock turned his face towards John’s and quietly recalled the beginning of his addiction to substances – anything to keep him going from day to day in the lonely hive of insomnia that was his flat before 221B, before Mrs Hudson, and before John. John gently kissed him on the tip of the nose and reminded him that that time had passed; he could sleep for Britain now, if he wanted to, and John would be right here beside him.

Well today, like the 1,900-odd days that had come before it, Sherlock woke peacefully with John right there beside him. He turned gently so that he was face to face with John, and carefully started combing his fingers through John’s hair, from the top of his head to the back of his neck, over and over. With a peaceful sigh from John, Sherlock started planting soft kisses all around John’s face, from the tip of his nose to his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, and eventually a light and chaste press upon his lips. When Sherlock pulled away, he found John’s eyes to be finally open and looking up at him, a smile making its way onto his endearingly sleepy face.

“G’morning,” he mumbled.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock grinned lovingly at John’s charmingly sweet smile, and pressed another kiss onto his soft and pliant mouth. John tucked his arms around Sherlock’s waist and beamed at the incredible man he had the pleasure of waking up with every morning.

“You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re really human at all, or if you’re just better at disguises than I think you are.” Sherlock looked puzzlingly at John’s face. “You have a mind palace. You bewilder me every single time you solve a case, you have a thousand million ideas and problems and little nuggets of knowledge running around your brain every minute of every day. And yet you still know exactly how to wake me up in the morning in the most _perfect_ way.”

Sherlock chuckled affectionately at John’s early morning declaration, one of those true only-for-John grins taking over his face. “You’re right, John – a thousand million little things running around in my head,” Sherlock looked at John with a concentration oozing with compassion, his hand coming up to settle in the hair on the back of John’s head. “But you’re the only one in my heart. You’re the only one that matters regardless of the case, regardless of the situation. You’re always the most important, John,” Sherlock whispered gently. Sherlock’s honest, innocent smile was met by John’s as he was blown away once again by the staggeringly simple way Sherlock reminded him of why he had fallen in love with this crazy man.

“I love you,” John said, wondering if there would ever come a day when he wouldn’t be amazed by the man he met in a morgue one January, many years ago.

“Good,” Sherlock grinned, his blue eyes glistening as he confided for the umpteenth time to the man in his arms. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> A February fic published 5 minutes before March? Talk about meeting deadlines!


End file.
